Without a doubt,
roosterfish are in a class of their own. Their intricate array
of feathered dorsal fins give them an unparalleled exotic look, and
their proximity to shore puts the kayak angler in a perfect position
target them. At times they roam alone, but just as often they swim in
marauding packs with their feathers just above the water’s surface,
darting around in waist deep water in search of schools of mullet,
their favorite prey. No need to paddle out several hundred yards; these
prized fish can be targeted within a stone’s throw of the beach, or
less.

Roosters can get over 100 pounds, but are usually seen in the 15-30
pound range. Their meat is dark red, and nearly inedible, so they are
uniformly released. At certain times of the year, they herd schools of
fleeing baitfish right onto the shore. Let us not be mistaken, though;
getting close to roosters is one thing; hooking them is another.
Frustration is the name of the game, for above all, the rooster, or Pez
Gallo as it’s known in Spanish, is a cunning and wily fish. For every
person that has landed one, there must be hundreds that have tossed a
bait or lure into their midst, only to watch in disappointment as these
cunning predators follow their lure and veer off at the last moment.
Even greater in number are those who have watched roosters crash on
their baits without ever swallowing them.

My first experience with a roosterfish was an eerie
one, and left me with the feeling that the mindset and habits of these
fish were unique. I had arrived at noon at my favorite spot in Baja’s
East Cape, and had timed it so that I launched my kayak just as the
returning boats were letting their unused baits go. I mooched several
from the fleet, filled up a Plano bait bucket, and started paddling
down the shore. There was a strong current, and the rental kayak that I
was paddling didn’t exactly slice through the chop. I grew tired of
lugging the bait bucket behind me, and every so often pulled it on deck
to make things easier.

By the time I got to my spot, many of the bait were spent. The air
temperature was close to 100, the water well above 80, and the bait
needed a break, so I paddled out several hundred yards to soak the
survivors in cooler water. As I was reaching in my tackle box, I had
the strange sensation that I was being watched. Turning to my right, I
saw a something dart closer and stop on a dime, and then surface…the
telltale dorsal fins of a roosterfish! This one was huge, maybe 60
pounds, and he was just staring at me, almost motionless. This fish had
attitude! He had stalked me, and was waiting for my next move. I was
intimidated and overcome with excitement at the same time. As I fumbled
to pin a bait on, he grew impatient and darted off into the deep.

The next day I vowed to meet my foe on his turf once again. After a
fitful night’s sleep, I woke extra early and clambered out of my palapa
hut to check the wind and stars- all quiet, and no clouds! Even at this
early hour, the heat was so oppressive that by the time I loaded up my
yak, I was soaked in sweat. I had to be the first one in line at the
bait boat; I’d be paddling miles against the current with Plano bait
bucket in tow, and had to get to my spot before the wind came up.

Today I’d try a trick I’d learned the night before- keep two baits
already pinned on in the water, and keep them right next to the kayak
as I trolled up the beach. This would prevent the pesky needlefish from
devouring my precious offerings before I got a chance set them free in
the zone. This worked well; I saw several needlefish on the hunt pass
without incident. The wind started to pick up and I stayed in clear
waist deep water as I made my way up the coast. All of a sudden, I
heard a splash. A school of sardinas jumped out of the water in unison,
being chased by a trio of roosters! My turn had come! I let a bait out,
and soon after, my reel started screaming.

The fish fought intelligently, first running straight away, then down,
then changing directions. Just when I thought I had it, it took off for
another set of runs. The rooster wasn’t huge, maybe 15 pounds, but I
was ecstatic. His plume of dorsal fins was majestic; I snapped some
photos of him as I let him regain his strength, and then he kicked off.
Yahoo! I kept on my course, staying within 20 feet of shore, and was
struck again, this time by what turned out to be a 15 pound jack
crevalle. On the way back, I was able to land one more rooster, for a
total of three caught and released, and be back at the beach by 11:00!
Good thing, too, because the wind grew fierce and it was no time to be
on the water.

I returned to my beloved East Cape several months
later, with enough money to afford mothership support for a day. This
would enable me to go 20 minutes up the coast by boat to the lighthouse
that is known as one of the best spots in the world for roosterfish. In
addition to reaching spots that are out of paddling range,
mothershipping provides the kayaker with a steady supply of healthy
bait. As my friend and panguero for the day, Rene Macklish, headed out,
I grew nervous with anticipation.

He dropped me off in my kayak about 50 yards offshore, and I began to
paddle around, one bait about 40 yards behind, and one bait about ten
yards behind. I began circling the area, and noticed what appeared to
be an oil slick on the water. This saddened me. How could this happen
here in paradise? Rene was now a hundred yards away, and he was
watching the slick too, not with a look of disappointment, but of
intense interest. By the way Rene acted, I got the feeling that I
should give the slick a second look, and when I got within 10 yards of
the slick I found that the “slick” was actually a giant school of
cubera snapper, swirling in such numbers that the sea had turned a dark
reddish-brown! Unfortunately I was unable to entice any of the twenty
pounders to strike. I’ve since learned that when a school is this large
and packed together this closely, be it jacks, pargos or snappers, the
fish are often simply not in eating mode.

I continued paddling around the area, and about ten minutes later, my
reel made the sweet high pitched scream that I had been waiting for. I
waited till I couldn’t bear the suspense, slowly tightened the drag, my
rod doubled over, and my yak spun around immediately towards the fish.
Game on!! The fish immediately dove deep, and I was stunned at how much
line it took. The water gets very deep right off of the beach, so you
sit there, 50 yards off the beach, while your fish peels and peels line
and you’re wondering, how deep can it go?

What ensued was one of the most memorable battles I’ve ever enjoyed. I
had a Seeker 25 pound rod, and this fish put my equipment to the test.
I am still amazed at how the reel held up. I was so worried about
losing the fish that I kept grinding on the crank, even though I was
gaining no line. Rene followed me around as the fish pulled me all over
the place, and I kept looking at him, asking, “What could this possibly
be? “Grande Rooster!” he said. “C’mon, how could a rooster do this?”
The fish towed me at will and dove for the first 30 minutes, and then
surfaced briefly, just long enough for me to see his magnificent body.
It was a truly huge rooster. I screamed and my eyes bulged out.

As soon as his eyes met mine he dove again and the battle lasted for
another 15 minutes. Finally, he came alongside of my yak, and I hoisted
him for a picture. At this point I was within ten yards of the beach.
Right after Rene snapped the last shot, he yelled, “Watch out!” and I
was swamped by a wave in the shore break. In an instant my yak and gear
were floating upside down, and the rooster was floating belly up next
to me. It was either revive the fish or get the yak and gear, and I
elected to revive the fish. I grabbed his tail, and as I swam behind
him, I pushed him in front of me. When I did this, he raised his
feathers and started moving slowly. His response encouraged me and I
continued to push him along, although I quickly became exhausted from
all the kicking necessary to keep a steady pace. As always, I had my
PFD on, so I was never in any danger. I kept the rescue effort up as
long as I could. Rene would have swooped in to grab the fish and revive
him by pulling him alongside his panga as he slowly motored along, but
he couldn’t risk getting to close to the shore break, so I was the
fish’s only hope.

After awhile I became so exhausted that I couldn’t
swim anymore. I had thought that the rooster would now be able to swim
independently, but when I let go of him, he went belly up, so I swam
him onto the beach and tried to revive him in knee deep water by
running him along the shore. The scene played out like one of those war
movies where the guy is performing CPR on his buddy who is obviously
gone. Wracked with guilt, I couldn’t stop trying. Every time I looked
at Rene, he’d run his finger across his throat indicating that the fish
was lost, and eventually I had to face reality, too.

At this point my yak was lodged upside down in the sand with one the
rods wedged in the sand like the obstacles on the beaches of Normandy.

The other rod was lost. I put the fish in the yak, and since I had lost
the paddle long ago, I tried to push the yak through the shore break.

Eventually I had to get in, swim up the face of a wave, and push the
yak over top of the wave, and then swim to the yak. Finally I kicked
the yak and I out to where Rene was waiting for me. Rene took hold of
the kayak, I climbed over the side of the yak, and collapsed,
exhausted, in a heap on the floor of the boat.

What I have learned from this experience is that if
the fish looks exhausted, it is best not to remove it from the water at
all. In addition, I have switched to heavier tackle when targeting
larger fish, as it enables me to get them up before they are completely
spent. Although I had heard that roosters are almost inedible, I
filleted the fish myself and brought every last ounce of the dark
purplish meat back to San Diego, where I vowed to eat it all, lest the
fish’s death go in vain.

What I had heard was true. The meat is barely edible. It looks like
beef heart and has the consistency of shoe leather. Fortunately, my
Mexican wife, who grew up dirt poor in the tiny country town of Areo de
Rosales, is well versed in the art of making the most out of the least,
and we were able to make some worth and meaning out of the wondrous
fish’s ultimate sacrifice.